


Stardust

by canibecandid



Series: Stardust [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Constellations on People au, Drama, F/M, Romance, Stardust AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-24 09:52:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1600523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canibecandid/pseuds/canibecandid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her tongue catches in her throat, watching storming blues and greens pour across the man in front of her, comets zipping as fast as the words were leaving his mouth. She watches mutely as Lestrade explains the situation at hand, and she nods along without even tearing her eyes away from, quite possibly, the oddest galaxy she had ever seen. It’s then when she feels it, her own comets colliding with his and her breath catches, and her eyes dart to his. Either he doesn’t feel it or doesn’t care, as he continues to prattle on to Lestrade as he circles to body and looks at her notes. She watches him in silent awe as he works, catching things on the body that she had never seen before. Comets shoot faster and hotter under her skin, and she can’t help but feel a little bit of pride as she stands there, scalpel in hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kindling

"Everyone has a different pattern and look to them. No two galaxies are the same." Mr. Thompson, her 8th year science teacher explains, the swirling gold of his nebula visible on his arm under the black light. Everyone gasps and stares in awe, dreaming of what theirs will look like one day.

Molly is no different, gaping at the glittering gold that looks like it would be warm to the touch. She loves to watch the swirling lights shimmer and dance across her mother and father's skin, watching the way little comets and shooting stars shoot from her mother's arm to her fathers, their galaxies interacting and shaping, constellations aligned and yet still so many differences between the two systems.

As Molly becomes closer to age, the more time she spends flipping on the little black lights installed in the bathroom, inspecting the beds of her nails for a faint shimmer or a swirling blackness. Then when she sees nothing, she goes back to her studies and to her daydreams where she'd finally shine like the skies above her at night.

Her friend, Georgia, is the first in her class to reach her dusting. She squeals excitedly and they gather everyone they can into the bathroom, flicking on the black lights and covering as much white light as possible. Oh, and it is gorgeous, as Georgia shows the silky honey color lazily swirling on her arm, faint rose hues in the back ground.

Molly rushes home that very day and strips herself bare in the bathroom, searching every inch of her skin for a glimmer of her own dusting, but it's the same milky skin as always and she tries not to be more than a little bit disappointed as she tugs her clothes back on.

But as the year slowly passes, she checks less and less. She has bigger things to worry about, her father growing sicker and sicker each day. She hates the way the little black light above his bed flickers as they try to use his nebula and dusting to find the source of his illness. He tries not to show he's in pain, brushing her mother’s cheek and laughing heartily as he kisses her fingers, comets still streaking across their joined hands.

Things aren't looking good as far as Andrew Hooper's health is concerned, but he tries to keep a cheery face for her and her mother, Molly knows. He just wants them to be happy, he doesn’t want them to see him hurting. But Molly sees it, sees him, sitting in the lounge chair near the fireplace that New Years Eve, circling his arms with his fingertips and looking far older than he should. Little tears run down his face and into his just-greying beard, and he gives a great sniff before wiping his face off.

Molly never forgets that look, the overwhelming sadness that her father displayed for just that moment. Eventually, when he can’t be at home any more, Molly and her mother stay by his side at the hospital, with it's flickering black light and sterile smell. When his final moments come, she cries endless tears as each light in his galaxy flickers out, and the last comet shoots from his hand and slowly fades across her mother's arm.

It's not until she's scrubbing her face in the back of the church at the wake when the little purple light above her flickers on and she sees the tips of her fingers stained black with sharp swirls of purple, blue, and silver. It's nothing like she's ever seen before, and she hates it. She doesn't want more stares and pity, because she's already so _different_.

Her mother thinks it a stage when she starts to cover herself, taking out the black light in her small bathroom, but she doesn’t want to see her galaxy anymore. She feels a pang of envy as she rushes out of the loo when a gaggle of girls stand showing off their swirls to each other. Beautiful and golden, everything hers wasn’t.

Lying bare on her bed, black light overhead, Molly strokes her stomach and the large silver galaxy that crept from her navel to her throat. Blooming purples and blues, hazy tones of pink and a rose gold color that appears as small veins on her arms. They twinkle and dance, even as she claws at her own skin, wondering why she couldn’t have just be like the other girls in her class. The lights are switched from black light to white, and her skin is puckered and angry from the harsh treatment of her nails, and Molly promises herself to never try and tear away her own skin again.

And though Molly’s nebula isn't what she had hoped for, she loves to learn about them anyway and they still hold her interest as she enters uni and starts her studies. How different life styles and choices affect the color and shape. Bursts of flares and lights where people have injected themselves and discolored areas just under the nose from a different kind of substance abuse.

“A person’s dusting and galaxy can give a lot of information on a body and how they died.” Molly glances up in the middle of the lecture, looking at the slide projector as it flips from body to body. “If causes are natural or are caused by the body, the system will flicker out. But from an external force, well, let’s just say it causes a rather obvious disruption in their patterns and dusting.”

For the next several years, Molly throws herself into her studies. Learning about poisoning, gun wounds, stabs, and various causes of death and their effects on the body’s galaxy and dusting. Her mum is slightly concerned at her choice of work, but when the opportunity arises for her to work at St. Bartholomew's, Andrea Hooper goes straight into the heart of London and pays for the first six months of rent for the tiny flat. It’s not much, but it’s every crack in her mother’s hands from scrubbing floors and the little bit left over from her father’s time as electrician or  handyman, and Molly loves it all the same.

She works endless hours in the chilly morgue of St. Bart’s, with her shiny lab equipment and polished surfaces, making a name for herself among her peers. Every death has it’s own fingerprint, every sabotage its own trace, and she relays that back to the Yard when their samples are done. It’s not uncommon for Donovan or Anderson to page her, or simply show up, but that’s not what happens as she stands over the most particular body she had ever witnessed. Even though the body had long gone cold, been drained, and cut open for her perusal, the nebulae continued to bubble to the surface like trapped air pockets.

She wasn’t sure how long she has been standing there, scalpel in hand, staring at the corpse when the doors burst open and Molly nearly jumps out her skin whirling to face the soon-to-be tenants of her morgue.

But her tongue catches in her throat, watching storming blues and greens pour across the man in front of her, comets zipping as fast as the words were leaving his mouth. She watches mutely as Lestrade explains the situation at hand, and she nods along without even tearing her eyes away from, quite possibly, the oddest galaxy she had ever seen. The tall man leans forward, his smile just a fraction too tight, and eases her back towards the body. It’s then when she feels it, her own comets colliding with his and her breath catches, and her eyes dart to his. Either he doesn’t feel it or doesn’t care, as he continues to prattle on to Lestrade as he circles to body and looks at her notes. She watches him in silent awe as he works, catching things on the body that she had never seen before. Comets shoot faster and hotter under her skin, and she can’t help but feel a little bit of pride as she stands there, scalpel in hand. He feels them, she knows he does by the way he can’t seem to stop scratching his arms.

“Sherlock, are you doin’ alright? You’re not having _withdrawals_ … are you?” Greg says as quietly as possible, taking in Sherlock’s behavior.

“No, no. Wrong symptoms. The heat is all wrong for that; moving, shooting. Doesn’t matter, I can focus. I am focused.” Sherlock rambles forward, coming to the eventual conclusion that the drug was pheremonally based and injected directly into the bloodstream before bolting out of the morgue like he’d been starved of air.

“G-Greg,” The DI’s head turns to her direction as she flicks the overhead black lights back off. “What was that? Who was that?”

“I have no bloody clue _what_ that was, but _that_ is Sherlock Holmes.”


	2. Solarflares

Molly had hoped that over time, the rushing feel of comets streaking across her skin would fade, because Sherlock is not anything she had ever hoped for. He could be cruel with his words and actions, even if he didn’t realize it all the time and she truly doubted that he could ignore the sensation of the hot jolts that ran across him. In fact, she knew that he couldn’t. He would always run his hands down his arms repeatedly in her presence, as if to soothe the swirling forces that were tuned to their lives.

Of course she felt connections to other people, but never the strong burn and bind that she felt towards Sherlock. But she did try to at least make a life for herself outside of her hopeless romantic ideas and day-dreams. Over the years they develop a sort of odd working friendship, he’d rattle off whatever was going on his life and stayed completely silent if she mentioned hers. He’d flatter her, she’d give him body parts. It probably wasn’t the healthiest of relationships, she conceded, but it was better than nothing. She was perfectly fine with his friendship, even if it was a tad one sided.

“I think I solved Sherlock’s flatmate problem.” Mike Stamford informed her cheerily one day in the lounge as they both drained the dregs from the bottom of their cups before heading in for a refill. Molly hummed her casual interest as she made a cup for herself, still a little put out by Sherlock’s slight rejection of going out for coffee. At least she had prepared herself for that outcome.

“His name is John Watson. I might have had a black light on. You could see solar flares from across the room, they were so a tune with each other. It was amazing.” Mike sounded completely in awe as he sat down and cleaned his glasses at one of the little tables. “And the way he responded.”

Molly turned to him slowly, her heart sinking in her chest. “He responded to John’s flares?” The dull thud sinking all the way into her stomach.

“Eagerly, like he was _feeding_ off of it.” Mike nodded, the far off look in his face as he recounted the interaction.  Molly felt like she’d had received a cold splash of water and her stomach fell.

“Oh.” Was all she said before she dumped out her coffee and headed back to the morgue to lock herself in her office. And if a few tears slid down her face, who would tell anyone anyway?

“Sherlock Holmes would.” Molly laughed bitterly, resting her head on her desk and letting the rest of her tears fall.

* * *

“So you cried over it?” Meena asked through the phone that was wedged between her cheek and shoulder as Molly tried to paint her toe nails. She sighed and closed her eyes tightly, feeling her cheeks burn.

“Yeah, I did.”

“Why? I mean you _know_ what he’s like.” Meena insisted, sounding more than a little irritated. “For god sakes, Molly, what did you expect?”

“I dunno, some _sympathy_ from my _friend?_ Well, you know what? Sometimes I get lonely, Meena. It’s okay for me to cry over something, I’m not going to apologize for it, especially when I try my best to just not talk about it.” Molly snapped, bolting right up to her feet.

“Molly that’s now what I meant-”

“Sod it, I’ll call you tomorrow.” And with that, she hung up her phone and threw it on the couch, pacing around her living room as Toby opened a lazy eye to peer up at her. “Well, what are you looking at?”

Toby gave her a disdainful sniff before leaping to the floor gracefully and winding himself between her legs.

“You know what? I’m going to go out. I’m going to go out and have a great time.” Molly assured herself as she strode into her bedroom and ripped open her closet doors. She shoved aside mountains of cardigans and jumpers as she pulled out a turquoise dress that she’d bought on a whim once. It flared from her hips and twirled a little, which made her happy. Molly hummed to herself as she rolled on her tights, smiling at the little black polka-dots on the sheer fabric, and slid into shoes that would undoubtedly make her feet hurt in the morning. She primped and polished her hair and makeup a bit before heading out the door with a final scratch on Toby’s head. “Wish me luck, Toby!” Molly called with a laugh as she locked the door behind her.

The cab pulled up to the little retro club on the upside of town, with nary a black light in sight, and Molly skipped in after she paid her fee to the cabbie. The band up front was all trumpets and swing as people jived and swung around the floor and Molly couldn’t hold in her bubble of laughter as she was immediately drawn into a Charleston. Other pairs danced with their partners across the bar, and Molly was happy to be twirled from one partner to another.

“Mind if I cut in?” A shorter man in a blue dress shirt asked, an Irish lilt coloring his words and mischief sparkled in his eyes as the band started up another round of jiving. “The name is Jim! I work in IT at St. Bart’s, can I buy you a drink after this dance?” He gave her a winning smile, and though she didn’t feel comets streaking across her skin, Molly felt herself blush and nod her head with a grin.

“Absolutely.”

****  
  



	3. On the slab

_Something was not right_ , Molly could feel that in her bones, in her system that stayed content on her own skin and swirled pleasantly as if no one was in the break room at all. She only ever felt this way in the morgue and it puzzled her as Jim continued to explain the basic outline of how to maintain her laptop and blog. Her instincts screaming at her to do something, anything, as she continued to smile blandly and nodding her head.

  
“So tell me about dark, brooding, and mysterious.” Jim grinned from his chair to her, all teeth and it reminded her of a wolf. She frowned, her brow creasing as she tried to dissect that look, to ingrain it in herself and wonder why it made her stomach clench.

  
“W-who?” Molly blushed at her stammer, but Jim smiled with his lips stretching thin over his teeth and his thumb grazing back and forth on the back of her hand. She schooled herself into grinning, though it wobbled a bit. Thankfully, he must have thought it was shyness seeping through, instead of shock at the blankness of his touch.

  
“You talked about him,” Jim paused as if waiting for her to catch up. “On your blog.” He inclined his head to the whirring machine between them.

  
“Oh! Sherlock?” There was a glint in his eyes as she said his name, and suddenly, she had a plan. “He’s a detective, well, a consulting detective for the Yard. Made the job up himself, I can’t tell if it’s his ego or if he’s just that brilliant.”

  
“And to outsmart Sherlock Holmes?”  
The question brought Molly to a hault. She knew what great lengths Sherlock would go to prove himself to be the best. Nothing short of coma or death would stop him. Her heart lurched at the idea of never feeling his dusting cross with hers, to never feel comets streaking down her arms and warming her, even though the man himself could be so cold.

  
“No one could be that clever.” Molly murmured, her voice taking on a harsh edge. “You can see that for yourself, if you’d like to come by the lab with me. Just need to fetch a sample of fingernails, and then we can be off.”

  
Jim nodded eagerly, snapping her laptop closed and gathering her things, practically shoving them out of the door. Molly stumbled into the elevator after him, nodding along as he jibbered happily at her side.  
Something isn’t right. Molly thought grimly to herself as she opened the lab doors. Sherlock sat on the stool that Molly often thought of his, fiddling impatiently with a sol sape. _Please, please see me. See that I’m right_. “Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes.”  
Her skin sizzled and snapped to life, tingling down to her fingertips as she takes in the shorter blonde man.

  
She felt tendrils of her galaxy wrapping around his and it stuns her for a second. “And uh… Sorry?” So many spinning objects collide invisibly, written in the darkest parts of their skin.

  
“John Watson, hi.”  
Jim either is better at ignoring solar flares, or he just can’t feel them as he moves closer.

“Hi. So you’re Sherlock Holmes. Molly’s told me all about you. Are you on one of your cases?”

  
“Jim works in IT upstairs. That’s how we met. Office romance.” Molly supplied as her mind shrikes for Sherlock to feel what he can’t see.  
Sherlock barely spares a glance. “Gay.”  
“Sorry, what?” The words tumble out before she can stop them. Another glance is spared. “Nothing. Um, hey.”  
Everything feels slightly tilted as Jim up ends a tray and then makes his excuse.  
He didn’t even notice. Not even a little. A part of her seethes.  
“What do you mean gay? We’re together.” The words are out before she can stop them, sharper than she wants.

  
“And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You’ve put on three pounds since I last saw you.” Sherlock twists the knife deeper into her stomach by dismissing her, yet again.

  
“Two and a half.”

  
“Mm. Three.”

“Sherlock.” The warning is there, John wants to spare her feelings, to spare her from Sherlock.

  
“He’s not gay! Why’d you have to spoil— ? He’s not.” There’s something else! She wants to insist, but she can feel Sherlock’s system lashing out at her. He’s sunk his teeth in and she just wants to let go.

  
“With that level of personal grooming?”

  
“Because he puts a bit of product in his hair? I put product in my hair.” John argues, coming to her aid, a gentle swimming at the edge of her fingers.

  
“You wash your hair. There’s a difference. No, no. Tinted eyelashes. Clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines, those tired, clubber’s eyes. Then there’s his underwear.”

  
“His underwear?” Molly wants to laugh in disbelief. Sherlock could see it all and not notice that his own system had only acknowledged two systems.

“Visible above the waistline. Very visible. Very particular brand. That plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here and I’d say you better break it off now and save yourself the pain.”

  
Enough, Molly decided, I've had enough.

  
And so she danced with the man no system. He let her curl into him as they watch tv and plays with Toby.  
Maybe it’s better to not have a system than not have a heart.  
It doesn’t last anyway, and she ends it with a quiet kiss on his cheek as she shuffles back to the morgue. Her system as still as ever.

* * *

 

Things return to a relative state of normal in St. Bart’s lab. Sherlock comes to mess with equipment he magically has access to, does not file appropriate paperwork, and then whisks away in a sea of comets and coat as he heads off to his next case.  
It’s practically domestic for him. Molly laughs at the idea, as Sherlock grimaces at his now cold coffee, but returns to his work.

“John is going to spend his holiday with Harry.” Sherlock says it with enough venom that it makes her halt in the middle of weighing out a liver.

  
“Sorry, wh-what?” She stammers, Sherlock letting it a disgruntled huff.

  
“Harry, his sister. He thinks she’s sobered up. He’s wrong.”

  
“You don’t actually know that.”

  
“Typical behavior pattern says she hasn’t.”

  
“Y-you always say people aren’t your area.”

  
Sherlock pauses, looking up from his sol scapes. “That’s because they’re not.”

  
Molly shakes her head. He’s wrong of course; it’s that he cares too much. Sherlock would go great lengths for Lestrade, the man that saw potential when so many just saw the addict. He tossed a man out of a window several times for Martha Hudson, who’s calming nebula would smooth his ravaged edges and frays. How far would he go for John Watson?  
God, she hopes they never have to find out.

“She could surprise you.”

Sherlock scoffed at the notion. “Doubt it. People rarely change.”

  
Don’t I know it. Molly thought bitterly, her mouth a tight smile as she replied. “People, not your area. Remember?”

  
He doesn’t answer and that maybe for the best, both moving along in their own tasks. Molly humming slightly off key to _I’ll be home for Christmas_ as it piped through the speakers and finished her report, Sherlock still fiddling with sol scapes and samples. It was quiet until Sherlock abruptly stood, quickly putting on his coat and heading toward the door.

“Lovely chat, Molly. See you at the party.”

  
She paused. “Party?” She echoed in bafflement.

  
“Yes, John’s party, we just had this conversation.” And then he was gone in a swish of his coat, the door swinging shut behind him.

“But you didn’t-” she started to call after him. “Invite me.” Echoed off the walls in the empty room, comets chasing him anyway.

* * *

 

And, Gods above, she should have known better. Better than to show up with her hair curled like her mother had taught her, with a shiny bow and pretty lipstick. She wants to cry at the onslaught of solar storms that crush her, feeling so small in the beautiful dress that she had worn in the hopes that he would see. See the things that he obviously could not feel. Molly took a healthy sip of her wine as he continued to turn the package over in his hands, Sherlock halting to a stop as he read the tag.

_Three x’s is a romantic attraction._

It burned in her throat and clawed its way up. “You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always.” Her own flares lashed out, hurt, and trembling like the wine glass in her hand. “Always.” Molly muttered as Sherlock turned away from her.  
The solar storms slowed and Molly felt the warm comfort of Sherlock’s system before she heard his apology and pressed his lips to her cheek. For a moment, one blissful moment, Molly imagined something more; her heart raced miles above her head. But she’d savor this, she told herself firmly, after the breathy moan emanated from Sherlock’s pocket. Savor that split moment of genuine remorse that Sherlock had given.  
“Oh darling,” her mother had crooned over the phone. “I’ll be on the cruise, but you know you’re welcome to come home. Always.”  
“Always.” Molly repeated with a fond smile, the word she had said earlier that evening carrying an entirely different weight. “Thanks, mum, but I think I’ll be alright. Just wanted to hear your voice.”  
They talked, chatted, and exchanged their happy Christmases.  
“Molly, I’m proud of you. Never forget that we are so proud of you.” Molly closed her eyes tightly as tears burned behind her eyelids. She swallowed, rubbing the back of her arm under her nose as she sniffed.  
“Yeah mum, I know.”

* * *

 

And she had considered it, running off to her mother’s for her holiday and away from consulting detectives and their sympathetic bloggers, until she received a call from an unregistered number.

  
“Molly Hooper.” The smooth voice stated, punctuated and efficient. “There’s a,” she paused “situation that must be addressed.”

  
Molly sighed. She knew her schedule, but she also knew that voice.  
“Tell Mycroft to send the car ‘round, I suppose.”

  
“You’ll find that we’ve already accommodated you.”

  
“Thank you, Anthea.” There was a lull before Anthea cleared her throat.

  
“You’re quite welcome, Ms. Hooper. Always a pleasure.”

But this, the body laying out in front of her, was decidedly not a pleasure, Molly decided. The milky red and white supernova was shattered and splintered over the woman’s face, coinciding with the initial diagnostic of extreme blunt force trauma. There wasn’t anything else that seemed out of place, or unusual throughout the rest of the procedure, Mycroft coming through the door as Molly closed the body.

  
“Ah Doctor Hooper, pleasant surprise.” The soft undercurrents of Mycroft’s system settled over her own, prodding and seeking the unseen. It would probably be unnoticeable, she thought, if you were around moving systems all day.

  
“M-Mycroft.” Molly sighed, it was hardly a surprise and definitely not pleasant, drawing the sheet back over the body. She removed her gloves and finalized her report. “What’s this about?”

  
Mycroft raised his eyebrow lazily, umbrella at his side. “Why, Doctor Hooper, I am accounting for pieces that are in play.”

  
“People are not pieces. People’s lives are not a game.” Molly said coldly, her system over powering the faint skirts of Mycroft’s. “You’d be an idiot to think otherwise.”

  
Mycroft’s face was unreadable, carefully neutral as he reappraised her. “Quite.”

  
Her skin hummed, the sensation growing as Sherlock entered the morgue.

“It seems that I haven’t accounted for all of the players, as well.” Mycroft intoned, before he strolled over to his brother. They exchanged words, gestures, and their quick banter as they came to stand over the body.

  
“You didn’t have to come in, Molly.” Sherlock muttered, running his hands down his arms to fiddle with his gloves.

  
“It’s okay, everyone one else was busy with,” She paused, her traitorous mind replaying their moment at the party. “Christmas.” She finished lamely, moving to draw the sheet back. “Her face is a bit banged up, but…”

  
The comets that normals danced and shot across her skin hung frozen, suspended, as Sherlock stood ramrod straight next to her.  
“That’s her.” Was his only clipped reply before exiting the morgue. She felt sick, looking at Mycroft. This woman meant something, she was someone to Sherlock.

  
“How did he identify her from,” Molly looked over the body again, “not her face?”

  
Mycroft gave her a thin smile before exiting after his brother.

Her heart ached for the body that laid out on her slab.

  
“You must have been so special.” Molly whispered quietly as she shut the door to the cooler. “I am so sorry.”

And she meant it.


	4. Falling Stars

Sherlock Holmes was laying on her couch, petting her cat, and staring at the ceiling. He was not in his Mind Palace, his posture to rigid and still when she entered the room.

The zip of comets steady and strong, but there was a tremor in the outer parts of Sherlock’s system.

It felt like fear, shaking awake and away from a bad dream. Molly blinked a bit, her bag hitting the floor with a careless thud as she moved to stand in front of him.

He looked worn, weary, and a million other things that Molly knew he’d never admit. In his mind, everything might be transport, and it was obviously catching up to him. So she contained her questions and probing tendrils, as she retreated to her kitchen. If he needed a quiet place, he had his own flat that he could stay in. This was her home, not his, and her life didn’t revolve around him; even if her comets did.

Molly mulled over a few reasons for his appearance in her flat while she made dinner, swaying gently to the smooth jazz that poured from her radio as she flicked it on. He’d obviously come back from a case, he always looked a wreck after each one, but Molly didn’t say a word.

She had heard from Lestrade a while before, letting her know that he was back to work and generally asking for updates on a few cases that had been sent to her. He even mentioned that he had seen John and Sherlock in…

"Baskerville.” At the faint whisper of the word, the creeping crawling edges of Sherlock’s system started to retreat. So she follows them with her own, wrapping around them and trying to calm his systems tremors.

This isn’t for a case, this is about a case.

It’s in her steady routine that Sherlock starts to relax, him mouthing to himself what her next possible action will be, formatting the layout of her flat in his mind.

“For you.” Molly said, setting a pair of flannel trousers and an old shirt on the coffee table. “Bed is free. You need the space.”

He doesn’t, but he definitely needs the sleep, and she’s happy to see him take it as she ushers him down the hall; Toby settling on his designated area.

"And you?” Sherlock’s eyes sweep from the bed to her face.

“I’ll be here. O-on the couch, that is.” Molly rushed nervously, scolding herself for her slight blunder. “You’ll sleep better alone.”  
And then her greedy heart wouldn’t be able to bemoan the loss of Sherlock sleeping with her in her bed.

Grabbing a pillow and her own night clothes, Molly dressed the couch and then went into the bathroom to change.

Same routine as ever; hair combed, teeth brushed, face washed. But tonight she paused, looking at the little cord that hung above her vanity. She blinked at her reflection, eyes tired and alone water droplet barely hanging on to her chin, flicked off the white light and closed then tugged the cord.

There was a faint sizzle before the black light kicked on, the glow from her dusting illuminating the room. She smiled softly, watching the plumes of silver and blue ebb and sway up her throat; a smattering of honey colored flecks surrounding and sparkling underneath them like stars in the distance and her hand resting over the steady purple and silver of her core; and of course, she smiled, the streaking of Sherlock’s comets across her body.  
She can feel his system reach out to her’s, can see the vivid green tendril creeping down the side of her face. She smiled slightly, tracing it with the tips of her fingers in fondness.

Peace. She could give Sherlock peace, if nothing else.

She doesn’t hear him leave in the morning, but his clothes are folded neatly and the bed is made in the crispest fashion she’s ever seen; it’s as much as a thank you as she’d expect, but it doesn’t fail to make her smile.

They fall into a bit of a routine after that; Sherlock coming to her home, sharing a meal with her more or less, and then going to sleep after a particularly long case. It becomes more frequent as his name gains traction, and he evades the paparazzi by staying in her flat.  
Molly clipped out the photo of him in the deerstalker, laminated it, then stuck it on the fridge, laughing when Sherlock had defaced it with one of her sharpies.

They swapped it back and forth, erasing what ever the other person had drawn or written to make way for the new drawing. Once, Molly had drawn a mustache on John in the background, Sherlock had responded with a simple ‘no’.  
Underlined three times.

* * *

 

And then the rug was pulled.

“For sake of law and order, Molly, I suggest you refrain from dating.”

Molly rushed to keep up with the lab, rushed to find the news, and her world tilted on it’s axis as Jim Moriarty walked out as a free man.  
Sherlock had adopted a serene face in her lab, sitting quietly at his microscope, even as as his system churned back and forth. Something was not right. Something she wasn’t seeing, maybe someone who had more answers than anyone else did.

Instantly, her mind supplied Mycroft and his prodding white gold system. If he had answers, now would be the time.

Molly thought of Greg and his golden system flecked with noble blue all the way to his fingertips; talking to Sherlock in hushed tones about the charges that might be brought against him.

Martha Hudson, rose gold and brilliant, with a touch of lilac weaving through, insisting to her that things will turn out alright. To keep their collective chins up.

And, of course, John Watson; who’s hunter green nebula twisted and littered with electric blue and yellow gold, reached out in concern and lashed out in rage.

Sherlock muttered under his breath, fussing away at the microscope.

“I.O.U. Glycerol molecule. What are you?"

“What did you mean, 'I owe you’? You said 'I owe you’? You were muttering it while you were working.” Molly looked to him inquisitively, she could feel his frustration coming off of his dusting in short bursts.

“Nothing. Mental note.” Sherlock brushed her off, tracking a hand down his arm, chasing the sensation of comets. He was tired of the Moriarty business, putting him on edge and forcing him to keep face. Molly knew that look.

“You look a bit like my dad. He’s dead.” The words hung suspended in the air, stinging on the way out. “Oh, sorry…"

"Molly, please don’t feel the need to make conversation. It’s really not your area.”

“When he was dying, he was always cheerful. He was lovely. Except when he thought no one could see. I saw him once. He looked sad.” She pictured that old chair and could almost smell the fireplace.

“Molly…” Sherlock’s voice held a touch of warning, that she was getting too close, so she pressed a little further.

“You look sad,” Her eyes glanced over to John. “When you think he can’t see you.”  
“Are you okay? Don’t just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you.” She can feel her dusting curling around his, and Sherlock looks at her almost curiously.

“You can see me.” Molly bites off a startled laugh at Sherlock’s words. This isn’t her game, she’s not the one he needs in this.

“I don’t count.”

There’s genuine shock in Sherlock’s eyes at her words, a recoil in his system.

“What I’m trying to say is that, if there’s anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all, you can have me.” Heat flushed up her cheeks at the further inquisitive glance from Sherlock, the burn of comets distracting her slightly. “No, I just mean… I mean… if there’s anything you need - it’s fine.”

“B-but what could I need from you?”  
And there’s the grand prize question. Molly thought to herself.

“Nothing. I don’t know. But you could probably say 'Thank you’… actually.”

“Thank you?”

“I’m just gonna go and get some crisps. Do you want anything? It’s okay,” Sherlock leans forward to interject. “I know you don’t.”

“Well, actually, maybe I’ll…”

“I know you don’t.” Molly capped him off, heading out the door. It’s a case and food, much like anything else, would only slow him down.

* * *

 

As life swirled around Sherlock, she found herself drifting further and further away. Drawn into a peculiar situation herself, Molly buried herself in her work.

“Noted under blacklight observation; the nebula seems- to be bubbling back to the surface.” It was impossible. The third body this week that had come in, died of natural causes, but their dustings crept back to the surface of the skin in small pockets before dissipating. No superficial bruises or scarring, and toxicology reports ran clean. Nothing out of the ordinary on the surface. All three had been diabetics, pricks on the finger consistent with blood sugar tests; an odd coincidence but…  
“The universe is rarely so lazy.” Molly mumbled, rechecking the data charts and heading to the office to check the other records. All three had the same general practitioner, and had come in later visits with complaints of chest pain and fatigue; the same man had signed off on the paperwork for the last several visits from each patient.  
Hurriedly, Molly called the practitioner’s office. “Uh, yes, hello. Dr. Molly Hooper, from St. Bart’s.” She cleared her throat, hands tremmoring slightly. “I’m calling to ask about an RN by the name of Steven Morgan?”  
“I’m sorry, ma'am, but there isn’t anyone at this office that matches that name. You sure you called the right number?”  
Molly glanced down at the folder; yes, she had dialed correctly. The clerk asked around for a minute, before coming back to the phone.  
“Sorry, but no one can think of a Steven.”  
“W-well, how about I give you my number? In case something comes up?” Molly pressed, twisting the cord around her fingers.  
“Sure thing.”

She hung up the phone and stared blankly at the files the images of bubbling systems erupting like pockets of steam.

Molly pictured her own silver system, blooming with purples and blues, veined in thin pinks and rose gold; then suddenly black, popping to the surface.  
What, she wondered, could even make that happen?

She combed the aisles of medical books at St. Bart’s, anything that might have cropped up. Book after book, slowly making her way back down to the morgue, pushing open through the doorway.

“You were wrong, you know.” Molly jumped at the sound of Sherlock’s voice; the shock of comets coming slowly, almost hesitantly on to her skin as she put the large stack of books down. “You do count. You’ve always counted, and I’ve always trusted you, but you were right. I’m not okay.” “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Molly… I think I’m going to die”.

It felt like someone had poured ice in her veins. Sherlock Holmes, dead? No more quick jokes in the cafeteria, or the odd tentative brush of his dusting to hers, and no more comets skipping over her skin. Her heart thudded dully.

“What do you need?” A prayer, a wish, a hope; she would realign the stars if she knew how.

“If I wasn’t everything that you think I am - everything that I think I am - would you still want to help me?”

She could feel her system overpowering his, blending into one, and his hands twitched at his sides in an eagerness to calm the raining comets.

“What do you need?” She insisted.

“You.”

And their systems went still.


	5. Falling Skies

Sherlock is laid out on the table, ridged under the blacklight, and no one entered the lab to ask Molly if she was okay. To see if she was fine cleaning the blood out of Sherlock's hair, inspecting for fragmentation of his skull. Of course, Molly knew why that was as she spoke steadily to her mic.

"Locker number 36: the body of William 'Sherlock' Holmes. DOA. Cause of death: suicide. Patient has- had an elliptical shaped galaxy largely located across the upper chest and face; outer reachings as far as mid-thigh. Main color content of green and blue; fragmentations of yellow around nasal cavities due to history of drug use." She could be calm, clinical, because that's what was expected of her. She treated everything as she normally would; accounting the predecided weights of Sherlock's internal organs.

And after all was said and done, she slipped off her gloves and rolled up her sleeves. Hand quivering, she placed took Sherlock's hand with her own, watching as comets slowed and shattered. Tears dripped down her cheeks and the tip of her nose as she watched the very last comet chase from his arm to hers.

"Hearts are easily broken things, Doctor Hopper." Mycroft voiced behind her, umbrella thumping on the floor.  

"He breaks your heart every day, Mycroft." Molly sniffles, heart heaving in her chest and stomach churning. Mycroft says nothing as they stand over Sherlock's body, the sleeping agent settling his dusting to show perceived death. "He'll never know. Your secret is safe with me."

"Is it?" And she feels the proddings at her frayed system. She doesn't have it in her to be angry in his doubt, so she nods with a wavered smile.

"Of course."

He inclines his head once and Molly drapes Sherlock's body. "Time to go be Sherlock Holmes." It's her parting sigh as Mycroft's men wheel him away, and as the doors swing shut, her knees giveaway.

Sobs rip up her throat and her chest quakes from their force. monstrous and earth shattering, tears burning her eyes and clouding them until she can't see anymore. The cold floor feels sharp on her cheeks and they echo her cries of anguish; system lashing and burning, tangling around her heart and robbing her of her breath.

No one comes; no one dares, though they can hear her.

They know, or rather, they talked.

They spoke of the comets colliding on poor Molly’s skin, and how they’ll never rain again.

Not a word is spoken of her red rimmed eyes, as Mike Stamford guides her down the hall to the street. Or the tremble of her lips, at the people surrounding the blood stained pavement, and the wild look in her eyes.

And from the top of the building, away from the eyes of on the ground, trained eyes follow her. Barrel aimed and ready.

“No. She lives.” ** **  
****

* * *

She lies.

Molly lies to her coworkers; She’s fine. It’s all fine.

She lies to her mother; She didn’t see it coming. No, she’s fine. Don’t cancel your plans.

And maybe worse of all, she lies to John Watson.

At the funeral.

At the pub.

As she shoves the pretty blonde nurse in his direction.

Molly Hooper lies to John Watson, and she can’t stop.

She dreams of comets at night and wakes up in a cold sweat when her windows are opened. Washes rumpled sheets left on her couch that should have never been used and throws away half full cartons of cigarettes that are not hers.

And when she meets Tom, Molly wants to laugh until she cries. It seemed cruel that only months before she had hoped that Sherlock could be domestic; in any sense of the word.

Then there was Tom. Sweet, loving, dimwitted Tom.

He has his heart in the right place, and Molly can appreciate that, but she wonders how she let the lie get so out of hand. Out of her control and range, and then she’s engaged.

Tom’s system twines with her’s, and it’s comforting in it’s own way, but she knows; she knows it’s not comets and shooting stars, there’s no alignment, and knows that Tom would stay with her.

If just so that his sheets weren’t cold, to share skin that could feel too tight in the dark hours of night, to hold on.

And when Molly said yes, that was the moment they both started letting go.

* * *

******  
** ****

Molly can’t decide if it’s a blessing or a curse that that Sherlock hasn’t come around; or at least he hasn’t broken into her flat again. In small moments, she feels like she’s been freed, freed of knowing that he’s alive. But she deserves that bit of selfishness, in the darkest part of her, to surround herself in memories before their lives became spattered on the sidewalk.

She sets to mending herself up.

Going out with her friends, with Tom, and trying to live outside of the walls that may suffocate her if they came too close. It’s a good life she leads, if a bit quiet and calm.

Maybe not the best life she could have had, but it’s the good life she has now, and Molly can be content with what she has. She always has been before.

But she wonders, stroking her arms in the dark and gazing at the streets under the window of her flat, dreams of comets blooming across her skin.

And then it comes, two years of mending and calm, and it’s finally here.

She feels him before she sees him in he glint of the mirror in her locker. The shiver of comets, the heat of his flares, and she still gasps when she sees him.

**Sherlock is alive.**


	6. Bullets for Two

“Maybe it’s just my type.” She mutters, alone in the hall with the burn of his lips still on her cheek. She follows straight out behind him into the streets and sees him already a great distance ahead of her, keeping a light jog.

Molly closes her eyes and feels her comets reaching out, and the ring on her finger burns in its coolness against her skin.

She knew, just like everyone else, that comets and starlight didn't mean love. Connection, chemistry, and more dangerously, they brought hope.

It wasn't fate, stars and constellations aligned everyday. And Molly comforts herself with these facts as she walks back to her cramped apartment, with Tom’s too big furniture and his too spaced system. She could make it work, she told herself as she rested her head on the door of her flat; her system could fill the gaps in his, they could make it.

It’s this resolve in her heart that makes her stay at John’s wedding, instead of going after him. Her sheets were never cold, Tom made her coffee before work and dropped a kiss on her cheek as he left, and she never had to wonder if he loved her.

He did. Tom was sweet, kind hearted, thoughtful, and he loved her.

So she stays. She stays and hopes that she could love him, too.

When Tom left, in his quiet gentle way; Molly cried. She wasn’t sad, she was relieved, and no one had to know that but her.

* * *

Fairly grateful for the lack of a ring.

It echoed in her head and drips into her heart as she sits in her office, staring blindly at the paperwork in front of her. It’s been a month, and she’s seen neither tail or hide of Sherlock Holmes.

“Good.” Molly grates. “Fine.”

She wishes that she didn’t have to feel this way. Angry and hurt by his words.

But they had come so far, he had come so far.

Her eyes flit across the pages.

Male, 62, Natural Causes, signed by Stephen Morgan.

Molly blinks and straightens in her chair, focusing again, rereading the file in front of her.

Stephen Morgan? He was here? In this hospital?

Hands shaking, Molly drops the folder on her desk and walks to cooler six, sucking in a deep breath as she flicks the black light on and opens the door.

As she expects, pockets of the man's dusting pushed forward in small bursts on to his skin, even though he was long gone.

Ignoring the ringing phone in her office, Molly circles the body looking for a sign, anything that might give her a clue.

This particular occurrence had cropped up for years, but why?

The phone continues to ring and ring in her office as she tries to examine the body, until she can’t take it anymore and storms over to the phone. “St. Bart’s morgue, Molly Hooper; how can I help you?”

“Molly, it’s John. Sherlock’s been shot.”

* * *

“So you thought it’d be a fine idea to just slip out and leave, did you?” Molly asks, jaw set and locked, as she helps him drink the water from the straw. Sherlock, to his credit, says nothing and has the grace to look ashamed. “Why do you do this?”

“We all do silly things.” His eyes are tired, but twinkling as he slurs out the words. Unwillingly, her mouth kicks up at the corner.  
  


"Yes, yes we do."

They don't talk about _Seven Times at Bakers Street._

She doesn't mention Stephen Morgan.

He doesn't tell her how he got shot.

They sit and let the comets skitter across their skins, the swirls of the cosmos embracing for just a moment, and everything is just so.

And when she gets up to leave, he tells her Happy Christmas, just in case he doesn't see her.

For the life of her, Molly can't figure out why it sounds like goodbye.

 

* * *

"Hey Joan? Can you send Stephen Morgan down to the morgue?" Molly asks, cradling the phone to her ear, eyes trained on the body in the morgue. Pockets of gold dust bursting to the surface of the cold darkness under her black light. It's a shuffle of paper work, a body back in the cooler, and the snapping off of her gloves that makes her want to laugh at her daily routine.

She's about to confront the one connection she has to these bodies and their unusual postmortem habits, and it feels no different than any other day in the office.

The doors swing open and a reed thin man with graying dark hair enters the morgue. 

"Stephen Morgan?" She asks, as she moves into the office. "If you could look over this paperwork for me. There's been some inconsistencies occurring with the bodies I have received."

"Actually, it's Sebastian Moran, and I have a message from James Moriarty." She whirls around at the sound the name and the click of a gun. "Did you miss me?"

* * *

The End.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Stars in Alignment](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8118370) by [canibecandid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/canibecandid/pseuds/canibecandid)




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